


the doctor and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad week

by SleepyMaddy



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: 12 is...... so tired, Gen, Two Can Play At This Game verse, aka before Jenny and Harry start travelling with 12, if you think i dont have a 'forced to be lab partners' au somewhere, then you are sorely mistaken, this is set before the first fic in the series, yes this is a "competing for the same TA spot" fic because i have no shame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:15:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28512507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepyMaddy/pseuds/SleepyMaddy
Summary: Following a miscommunication, Harry Jones and Jenny Smith start a ruthless competition to become the Doctor's TA. The Doctor, who does not want a TA, is tired.Prequel fic inspired by HiNerdsItsCat's fantastic Two Can Play At This Game series
Comments: 5
Kudos: 28





	the doctor and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad week

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HiNerdsItsCat (HiLarpItsCat)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiLarpItsCat/gifts).



> this fic is inspired by HiNerdsItsCat's absolutely FANTASTIC series, [Two Can Play At This Game](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1733089), which i cannot recommend enough. Thank you again for giving me permission to post this :D
> 
> For context, this fic is set before the first installment in the series, aka before Harry and Jenny start travelling with 12, and before Bill turns into a magic puddle

“Ah, Doctor, may I have a word?”

As was his usual response to that sort of sentence, the Doctor pretended not to hear and instead quickened his pace. Usually this –combined with the eyebrows– was enough to get whoever wanted a word to back off.

Unfortunately for the Doctor, Matthew Stenson, the newly appointed head of the physics department of the university of St Luke’s, wasn’t quite so easily deterred. Instead, he did an odd little half jog to catch up and started walking alongside him, his bright grin still firmly in place. “I’m very glad to have run into you.”

He wasn’t sure “run into” was the best term to describe it, since Matthew Stenson had very clearly been trying to ambush him for over a week now. The Doctor wasn’t sure if he was more annoyed at him for doing it, or at himself, for letting his guard down.

“I have a very important matter to discuss,” he was still saying, easily keeping up with the Doctor’s pace. “Perhaps you’ve had the chance to read the emails I sent you about––”

“I don’t believe in emails.” 

“Naturally,” he replied smoothly. “Well, since I’m here, allow me to explain. I was wondering if you’d like to consider employing a teaching assistant. As you well know, they represent a fantastic asset, and would let you lighten your load considerably, allowing you to–”

Stenson’s car salesman tone was giving him a headache. All the man needed was a jingle, at this point. “No,” he said, increasing his stride ever so slightly and suppressing a sigh when it was immediately matched.

“Of course,” he said, white teeth gleaming in the hallway lights, “I understand they represent something of an adjustment when it comes to teaching style, but you also have to consider that the position of TA is an incredible opportunity for the students. It gives them considerable experience, and lets them learn from the very best. I’m sure–”

The door to the Doctor’s office came into view and he stopped pretending to listen, instead increasing his speed again. Stenson was a great talker, but a wooden door to the face tended to halt even the most gifted of conversationalists, in his experience.

His critical mistake was underestimating the man. Matthew Stenson was either a frequent runner or in possession of an incredibly well hidden personal teleport, because before the Doctor could even reach for the door handle, the man was standing between him and the door, still smiling politely. 

The Doctor blinked. “How did you do that?”

“I do triathlon.” Something shifted in the man’s eyes, and from polite his smile turned a lot firmer. “Alright, I will cut straight to the chase. This department is attributed a specific budget –a limited budget, but a budget nonetheless. A part of that budget is dedicated to TAs. If we do not use that budget, it will be redistributed, to _other_ departments.” For the first time, his smile slipped slightly. “That is not something I will allow to happen, Doctor.”

Despite having faced off threats considerably more formidable than a short man in a knitted sweater vest, the Doctor almost took a step back. 

The cordial smile was back. “You have one week to select a student for the position. Good afternoon, Doctor.”

On that, he took his leave, leaving the Doctor to stare after him, slightly dumbfounded. With a longing thought for the previous head of the physics department –who’d always been much too terrified of him to even try and speak to him, much less try to coerce him into anything–, he turned back towards his office door. He’d get Nardole to sort this out. Somehow.

He was just about to walk into the room when he suddenly realized he was being watched. He turned his head and suppressed a groan.

Standing in the hallway, mouth agape, were Harry Jones and Jenny Smith. 

Really, he should’ve expected it; these two were always at his office door after a lecture, usually bringing a migraine in their wake. Well, assuming they weren’t busy arguing in the lecture hall, that is. 

Still, he really wasn’t in the mood to entertain them. However interesting their questions usually were, it was all offset by how _annoying_ they were about it. He made a shooing motion with his hands. “No office hours tonight. Off you go.”

They didn’t budge, which he’d expected, but what he _hadn’t_ expected was that they didn’t speak either. Usually, by then, they’d have started shouting, most likely at each other. 

He lifted a brow. “What?”

Very slowly, slower than the Doctor had ever heard him, Jones spoke. “You’re taking on a TA?”

He blinked. _Oh no, no, no_ –

Smith snapped out of her shock as well. “Seriously? You have a TA position to fill?”

With something that could only be described as dread, the Doctor realized they must have heard the last part of the conversation. “I am _not_ taking on any TAs,” he said quickly, but it was too late.

Jones’ eyes were positively _gleaming._ “What exactly is the application process going to be like?”

“There’s no application–”

Smith’s scoff interrupted his protests. “Oh _please_. You, a TA?”

Jones narrowed his eyes at her. “I’d make an excellent TA.”

“I am not taking on TAs,” the Doctor repeated, feeling ever so slightly like he was talking at a couple of brick walls.

“You realize that you’d need to know how to read to be a TA, right?”

“Hilarious, Smith. And I’ll point out, what you _truly_ need most of all is people skills –so I’d suggest you don’t waste your time applying.”

“You need _pedagogical skills_! You couldn’t teach a stone how to sink!”

“And _you_ couldn’t organize a schedule if your life depended on it!” 

The volume was already starting to go up and the Doctor winced, rubbing his left temple. 

“You’re an _econ_ student! Why would the _physics_ department hire you?”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, I’ve technically written more papers in the Doctor’s field than you have.”

“The only reason you’ve written them was to annoy _me_!”

“Still. Published is published. I’d say that makes me more qualified than _you_ , by a long shot, and what’s _more_ –”

The Doctor had seen enough lost causes in his life to recognize one when it presented itself. With one last “I am not taking on a TA” thrown over his shoulder, he made his way into his office and locked the door behind him. As evidenced by the muffled shouting he could still hear, the information had fallen on deaf ears. 

And so began one of the strangest weeks of the Doctor’s life –which was really saying something.

*

It started out slowly. Subtly, even.

Whenever he wasn’t looking –which was most of the time–, mugs of freshly brewed tea or coffee would sort of... appear. During his lectures, as he sat in his office, when he settled in the furthest corner of the library to look at specific works or to avoid Nardole... He’d be focused on something, and when he next lifted his head, there’d be a fresh, steaming mug next to him. Always prepared to his exact taste, too, all the way down to the seven sugars.

At first, he’d assumed that for some reason, Nardole had just suddenly decided to become a competent valet. Scarily competent, maybe, but the Doctor wasn’t going to object. However, when he’d complained about the Doctor’s sudden obsession with hot beverages, after almost tripping on a pair of mugs that had been left on the floor in front of the office, a much _darker_ idea presented itself.

It graduated to a certitude the next morning as the Doctor waited for students to file into the lecture hall.

He was sitting behind the large oak desk, trying to remember where he’d hidden the box of good chalk —it was a rare and jealously guarded commodity, and none of the other lecturers were above stealing it— when he felt a shadow looming over him. 

Smith’s grin was so wide it was bordering on threatening. “Good morning.” She delicately put a steaming mug of tea down on the surface of the desk, as well as a small plastic bottle. “Vitamin C supplements,” she said brightly. “I noticed your intake was slightly below the recommended amount, and you seem to be starting to show some symptoms. Dry skin and migraines are common examples.” 

He stared at her but before he could start dwelling on the implications of _that_ sentence, a second steaming mug was put down on the desk. 

“Very presumptuous of you to assume those are linked to a vitamin C deficiency, Smith, when poor aeration conditions will have the same effects,” Harry Jones said in lieu of a greeting. He smiled charmingly in the Doctor’s direction, discreetly pushing Smith slightly to the side. “Good morning, Doctor.”

“I don’t need to be told I’m being presumptuous by someone who doesn’t even bring the right drink,” Smith snapped back, shoving him back to his previous spot, much less discreetly. “Coffee? Come on, Jones, at least _pretend_ to take this seriously.”

Jones was unfazed, instead raising an unimpressed eyebrow as he looked at her. “While the Doctor does tend to prefer tea,” he conceded smoothly, “he has also shown an affinity for coffee, especially before morning lectures. Perhaps _you_ should start paying attention, Smith, if you think you're capable of such a feat.”

Smith opened her mouth, no doubt about to reply with something remarkably witty indeed, but there was not enough coffee _or_ tea in the world to make up for a Smith & Jones shouting match at 8 in the morning. 

The Doctor stood, cutting off their sparring. “Right, well. Thank you.” He wasn’t sure what he was thanking them for but he didn’t dwell on it. There was something about the way they were smiling at him that deeply unsettled him. “I need to start the lecture, so if you could—“ He made a vague gesture towards the now almost full auditorium. 

In a way that was oddly reminiscent of creepy twins in horror movies –something about how synchronized it was–, they nodded with identical grins and turned towards the steps off the dais. Their seats –front row, each on one side of the room– were amongst the last free ones; the other students had learnt not to bother even trying to occupy them. The Doctor started to breathe a bit more easily but just before he could relax completely, Jones’ voice suddenly echoed again:

“By the way, Doctor,” he said, ignoring the way Smith glared at him, one step below, “the good chalk is behind the second drawer on the right. I took the liberty of purchasing an extra box.”

The Doctor spent the entirety of his lecture feeling distinctly _observed_.

*

Then came the food. 

Again, it started off slowly. A burrito from his favorite takeaway place miraculously materializing on his desk when he was hungry. A plate of biscuits when he walked into the lecture theatre. Fresh fruit scattered more or less everywhere –and, to their credit, without a single pear in sight. He probably wouldn’t even have noticed if he hadn’t already been so on edge after the mug invasion.

Unfortunately, it quickly got out of hand.

“They really are dedicated to this,” Bill commented as she munched on a croissant during a tutoring appointment one evening.

The Doctor stared despondently at the piles of various takeaway boxes and baked goods that had sprung up in his office over the past few days. As far as he could tell, there was at least one per cuisine –Chinese by the window, Italian by the book case, and Thai by the door, to name a few–, and who knew how many devoted to desserts. 

“Dedicated,” the Doctor deadpanned.

She raised a brow. “Yeah, _dedicated_.” She lifted the bag that held her current snack. “This is the fancy stuff. I’m pretty sure the closest bakery is like, an hour away.”

“Well I’m glad that at least _someone_ is enjoying this,” he said with a pointed look at her and she lifted her hands in mock surrender.

“Hey, I might not be a student here, but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna say no to free food. Plus, I’m pretty sure Nardole’s been enjoying it, too.”

“I have!” a voice replied, echoing from the other room. Nardole passed his head through the door frame. “The pad thai was _sublime_. I’ve half a mind to ask them what recipe they used.”

“Oh, I don’t think they made it,” Bill said, making a face. “From what I’ve gathered, cooking is _not_ their strong suit. Jenny told me she set off the fire alarm in her building once because of a toaster incident, whatever that is. She didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t ask.”

The Doctor sputtered a little, indignant. “Well then again, who _hasn’t_ had a toaster incident?” Nardole started grumbling, so he raised his voice. “Also, don’t get used to it. I’ll talk to them tomorrow, make it clear there’s no TA position.”

Nardole let out a disappointed _aw_ , before slinking back to the other room, but Bill clearly wasn’t convinced. 

He raised his eyebrows. “What?”

“At this point, I’m not even sure it’s your call anymore, is all.”

“Of _course_ it’s my call!”

She leant back into her chair, letting the pastry bag she was still holding drop onto her lap. “Why don’t you just give them both a spot, if they want it so badly? They’re clever enough.”

“It’s not about being _clever_.” He fumbled for a second. “TAs are there to _help_ other students. Offer support. Guidance. Can you honestly see either of them doing any of that?”

Bill considered his words for a second. “Not really.”

“Exactly.” He gestured towards the books that they’d managed to fit on the desk in between boxes of pastries and dishes full of mini pizzas. “Can we go back to the lesson now, please?”

She ignored him. “But also they’d be super annoying, yeah?”

He sighed. “Excruciatingly.”

*

Bill had been right –as she usually was. Despite a stern reminder that he had no TA position open, the food and drinks continued to defy the laws of physics by appearing out of thin air as soon as his back was turned. More worryingly, they’d started being accompanied by _them_ , always with a polite “Anything else, Doctor?”. 

It had gotten to the point where he’d ended up discreetly scanning them with the sonic –no human should be able to move _that_ stealthily. But results had come back clear, save for a frankly alarming amount of vitamin deficiencies that had left him wondering when either of them had last _seen_ a vegetable. 

Deep down, he knew that if he really decided to put a stop to this, there was always a way. They were certainly some of the most stubborn people he’d ever met, and the way they kept popping up was nothing short of unnerving, but they were also smart enough that he should be able to reason with them –he hoped.

That being said.

Despite how frankly ridiculous this situation was, and despite the fact that he was now jumping five feet into the air at the very sight of a cup of tea, there were some non-negligible perks to this situation. Strange, bordering-on-creepy perks, but perks nonetheless.

The most notable of those was the fact that they’d all but stopped arguing during his lectures entirely. That in and of itself would have made the entire situation worth it. However, they had seemingly decided to channel all their energy into a new, somehow much more disturbing pursuit; that is, demonstrating their teaching skills –skills neither of them had an ounce of.

Simply put, every time a student raised their hand to ask a question or challenge a point the Doctor had made during a lecture, Smith, Jones, or, God forbid, both of them at once, would be on their feet before the Doctor could blink. The poor student would then find themselves buried under a veritable mountain of information, rattled off at a dizzying speed, and with citations to boot. 

The Doctor had noticed a considerable drop in participation rates during his lectures since they’d started, but at least there was no yelling.

The worst part was, he was fairly certain the two felt they were genuinely helping, too.

But that wasn’t all. His laundry had never been this soft and well pressed –specially treated with orchid-based fabric softener, Jones had said when he’d dropped off the clothes at his office at two in the morning like it was the most normal thing in the world. Meanwhile, his office was so clean that he could have probably used the floor as a sterile lab environment, courtesy of Smith’s frankly aggressive but undeniably effective cleaning supplies, which he suspected she’d made herself. 

Even Nardole had warmed to them considerably, despite his initial concerns that their constant hovering would lead them to discovering the truth about the Doctor or the Vault. After all, they were _much_ too focused on outdoing the other to really pay attention to anything, and what’s more, their presence meant that he had found himself basically on holiday. All he needed to do was mention a chore within earshot of Jones or Smith to find it done to perfection a few minutes later. 

From what the Doctor could gather, other faculty members had started to notice, and both Smith and Jones had received at least seven separate TA offers, in as many departments.

And yet, when the Doctor walked into his office that evening, it was to find Harry Jones sitting at a small table, organizing large piles of papers into boxes. He was frowning, but his expression quickly smoothed out into his usual impeccable politeness. “Good evening, Doctor. I trust you had a pleasant day?”

“What are you doing?” The papers were vaguely familiar, tugging at some kind of long forgotten memory, but he couldn’t place them.

“Oh, I’m simply organizing your paperwork. I took the liberty of handling the most pressing issues.”

He blinked. “The what?”

Jones smiled cordially. “Well, it _appeared_ that you’d fallen somewhat behind, as far as university paperwork was concerned. I– rectified that. I’m just putting on the finishing touches.”

The Doctor didn’t remember everything about his time at St Luke’s, but he definitely remembered never touching a single piece of anything that might be remotely related to any kind of paperwork. “You handled all my paperwork?”

Jones nodded.

“For all the time I’ve been teaching here?”

“As far as I could tell, yes.”

“You’ve done _72 years’ worth_ of paperwork?”

Jones only smiled, and for a short second, the Doctor forgot how bad of an idea nominating him as a TA would be.

Something on his desk caught his attention, thankfully saving him from impulsively offering the job. He strode forward, frowning at the ancient answering machine resting among the mess. He lifted it, turning back to Jones. “Did you touch this?”

He shook his head. “No, why? Is something wrong?”

The Doctor set it back down. The answering machine was always, _always_ angrily blinking red at him. The only person who had this number was the university librarian, and most of the woman’s day was spent leaving sharp reminders about the books he’d borrowed that were overdue for return. Considering he doubted he’d ever returned a single volume, that was a long list. It was exhausting for both of them, he presumed, and very obviously not effective, but unplugging the machine had led to an administrative battle that had lasted several months and rivaled Sontaran battlefields in terms of viciousness. He’d just decided to get used to the blinking light.

The blinking light that was now turned off.

“Oh, I think that was me.”

Jenny Smith was standing in the doorway to his office, beaming. He must have looked as confused as he felt, because she elaborated: “I hacked into the library’s systems and erased all your late fees.” Her smile turned into a full grin. “Should buy you some peace for a few days, at least.”

He stared, mouth agape. Why had _he_ never thought of that? Once again, the urge to just offer the job reared its head. 

The noise of a chair being sharply pulled back startled him and he turned his head just in time to see a fuming Harry Jones stand up, finger already pointing in Smith’s direction, no doubt with an angry tirade at the ready.

However, what Jones had failed to notice in his anger, was that his sudden movement had destabilized the towering pile of books, papers, and tupperwares still full of untouched cookies behind him. It wobbled dangerously, threatening to collapse over his head.

Before anyone else could react, Smith had thrown the notebook she was holding at one of the piles on the table next to Jones, and a lot of things happened in very rapid succession:

The papers went flying.

Jones jumped out of the way, bumping into the tall, overloaded shelf behind him.

A vase flew off said shelf, crashing into the floor and shattering into a million pieces.

Jones jumped again, this time knocking into the desk and sending papers and pens clattering to the floor.

Alerted by the noise, Nardole walked into the room via the door next to Jones, plate in hand.

Nardole slipped on a pen that had gone rolling and went down with a high-pitched yelp.

His plate, which he’d lost his grip on in his fall, went flying up, right into the still wobbling tower.

The pile, nudged by the collision, swung back towards the wall, against which it settled gently, instead of collapsing onto the floor where Jones had been a second ago.

Silence fell.

“I–” Smith seemed just as, if not more, gobsmacked as they were. “I used to build Rube Goldberg machines as a kid,” she finally said, sheepish.

The Doctor closed his eyes. “Of course you did.”

*

The Doctor pushed the door open with a creaking noise that made his two TAs flinch. He grinned widely, gesturing at them to enter. “After you.”

They hesitated, but as soon as they noticed the other’s indecision, they were both back to lifting their chin and trying to be the first to walk inside. Smith made it first, thanks to a carefully timed stomp onto Jones’ left foot.

Her victory was short-lived however, as she took in the room they were standing in –if you could even call it that. “What is this, exactly?” she asked, her usual overly polite tone wavering a little under her confusion.

Jones didn’t seem much more at ease. Then again, in his defense, they _were_ standing in a damp, underground room approximately the size of a storage closet. There were no windows –the only light came from a single light bulb hanging from the cracked ceiling– and the room held in total one table and two uncomfortable looking chairs.

The Doctor didn’t even have to fake his enthusiasm. “It’s your new office!” He clicked his fingers and Nardole came shuffling into the room with a large cardboard box that he dropped onto the table, which shook unsteadily under the sudden weight. 

Jones blinked twice. “Pardon?” he finally said. 

“Well, after you both worked so hard to convince me, I started to see your point,” the Doctor said, leaning briefly against the wall to let Nardole walk back outside. He straightened back up immediately when he felt dampness seep into his jacket. “TAs _are_ very useful, and the most useful thing you two can do for me is _this_.” He gestured at the box.

Smith already had it open. “These are essays,” she said, holding a handful of papers up into the air. 

“Exactly,” the Doctor said. “Grading –the TA’s favorite thing.”

The students’ disappointment was palpable, but they both hid it fairly well. “I suppose,” Jones said, leaning over to look at its contents. “If we divide it up, we should be able to–”

“Oh, no, no.” He took a deep breath. Time for the trump card. If this failed, then he would end up with two of the most insufferable TAs in history for the rest of the year –at least. They’d earned the spot, after all. What he was counting on was them not _wanting_ it anymore. “I can do grading, that’s not hard. I need you two to do _collaborative_ grading.”

“ _What_?” Smith and Jones exclaimed at once, in a rare display of agreement.

He did not lose the smile –then again, it was completely genuine. “Yes! You see, I get a lot of complaints about my grading. People say it’s too subjective, not… certified. Which is why I need you two! You can go through all these and _agree_ on a grade for each. It’s like peer reviewing!”

Their matched expressions of horror could have illustrated the dictionary entry for the word.

He clapped once. “Right then, I’ll leave you to it. Drop these back off at my office when you’re done, there’s plenty more where that came from. Toodles!”

On that, he stepped outside and closed the door behind him.

“It’s never going to work.” Nardole was standing a few feet away, arms crossed.

The Doctor shushed him as he made his way over to him, squinting at his watch in the dim lighting of the hallway. “Give it a few minutes. They’re stubborn, but they’re not stupid.” Nardole shot him a look and he amended: “Well, not _that_ stupid, anyway. I hope.”

For exactly five and a half minutes, nothing happened. The Doctor was starting to seriously fear that his gamble hadn’t paid off when a loud noise echoed from the room he’d just left –something that sounded vaguely like a table being flipped over, to be precise.

One minute and 14 seconds later, two consecutive beeping noises echoed in the corridor, coming from Nardole’s pocket. Grumbling, he pulled out an ancient flip phone and pressed a few buttons. “Email,” he announced, sounding tired. “For you. Two of them, actually. Subject– oh.” He tutted. “Alright then. Well done, sir.” He handed the phone to the Doctor, letting him read for himself:

2 New Messages

FROM: [ j.smith@stluke.ac.uk ](mailto:j.smith@stluke.ac.uk) SUBJECT: Resignation letter

FROM: [ h.jones@stluke.ac.uk ](mailto:h.jones@stluke.ac.uk) SUBJECT: Resignation letter

**Author's Note:**

> i had SO much fun writing these nerds, thank you again op for letting me write/post this!


End file.
